Killed By a Loved One

Killed by a Loved One 10/23/14

The police said that my dad was murdered by a gang of teenagers. They knew that because a nice old lady doing her laundry saw them run to the store my dad owned and leave, stuffing money into their bags; my dad didn’t even have much money. Of course the gun shot was also quite obvious.

I thought of that while I sat in my white plastic chair, listening numbly as the pastor called up volunteers to say a little story or things they remembered. I felt jealous of those people. I was too nervous to get up in front of our family and friends. I was never very social and extremely shy. It was a trait I wished would just disappear, like my dad, but it stayed.

Finally when the funeral was over, I did not stay for the food and drinks. They kept saying that they were doing this because it was like celebrating his life. What? He’s dead! We should not be celebrating. That was just my opinion, which no one shared. I got in my car and left to go home, but ended up at my dad’s shop, which was still covered with police tape. I ignored and ducked under it, suddenly realizing I was where my dad died.

It was a small book shop. We were surprised that it had stayed open this long. I didn’t think anyone would continue to run it.

I sat down behind the counter and ran my fingers over the cash register, trying to picture his hands on it, but only felt his killers’ hands ripping it open to steal $146. I picked up a book and brought it to my car. I did that for a few weeks; one book every day.

When winter break was over, I went to school and went on social shut down. I didn’t talk to anyone, or join a club or volunteer for group projects. People would talk about me behind my back, but I didn’t care. I actually found hearing their put downs as amusing, with the words they used too much: “get over it” or “God, it’s been a month already.” They used those so much that part of me wanted to get a thesaurus and give it to them. “Use different words. You’re starting to bore me,” I would say, but didn’t.

Two months after he was killed, I still hid in my shell. I noticed how comfortable I was with being by myself. I would go into the library and sit on the carpet behind the last book shelf so no one noticed me, only everyone knew I was there, so it didn’t really matter anymore. I liked to think it did.

My mom had at first not wanted me to go to school because she said the criminals might be students. She never said “killer” or “murderers” and I didn’t say anything to that. I used those words though. It made sense to use them, so why wouldn’t I?

The third month was when I started to get lonely. They were right, I needed to move on. My friends (former) didn’t back me up, even when I pleaded for them to. Soon after I tried to forget, I realized the whole school had forgotten before me. Even the talking behind my back stuff was gone, and I missed it.

Then everything changed when this new kid, a senior, came to school. He was in two of my classes. I later found out his name was Josh. He was shy and an introvert and obviously depressed; I was the same, in my opinion. So I approached him and tried to talk to him. He acted like he didn’t want anyone to be around him, but I stayed, because that’s what I said to everyone but meant the opposite. I realized that the first time I talked to him. He wasn't good with his grades, so eventually he let me help him.

We talked on the phone for homework, but then would switch to any other subject besides homework. I never told him about my dad being murdered because I didn’t want him to know I had this baggage. Shallow, right? But anyway, soon I went to his house to hang out after homework. Then we didn’t do any homework. We didn’t officially say we were together, but I was pretty sure we were, after all we made out a lot.

On the last day of school, after being together every day, I finally let him into my house. It didn’t feel like a very big deal to me, but he was so excited to see my room and my family pictures.

I could still tell every time I saw him that he still had some deep issues, sometimes it seemed like PTSD, but I never pushed. It was his business, and if he wanted to tell me, that was his choice. It wasn't like I didn’t hide anything, either. I still hadn’t told him about my dad. It came up that he died, but I never said he was murdered. I wasn't comfortable sharing that…

So the day we went to my house he was so happy, it was adorable. But when we were going up stairs to my room, and he looked at our family photos, he suddenly ran out of the house and threw up outside. Then he ran away. I tried to run after him, but he was gone. I was so confused.

I called his phone over and over again, but his mom still said she hadn’t seen him. I cried all the time because I was alone now. I had no friends and my siblings had moved away. My mom had work every night, so I was left alone in an empty house. Everything reminded me of us. I couldn’t play any video games, or watch YouTube videos. I couldn’t watch movies without subconsciously moving my hand to hold his.

I would walk to his house every day, even in the heat. I started to try and move on but still broke down in tears because I thought I had done something horribly wrong. Irrational thoughts clogged my mind. Did he not like my house? Did he hate dogs? Nothing made sense. So I tore down the pictures of us that I had pinned to my walls. Got rid of everything he had given me. I couldn’t bring myself to throw them away, so I put them in our storage unit at the edge of town with my mom. She was very supporting for me all that time.

On the last day of summer, I decided it was going to be the last day I called, or visited his house. After all, hed ditched me for no apparent reason; and I wanted and NEEDED to move on.

So the last time I called his mom answered and I heard him in the background. I hung up and ran out of my house still in my tank top and pajama shorts.

I banged on his front door and hid next to it so he had to come out and see if anyone was there; he couldn’t shut me out.

“Hello?” he said and stepped out of his house. I pulled him away from the door and stood in front of it. I knew they had no back door because it was a small house with no back yard. It was a good advantage.

He looked a little stunned and before he turned his head away I slapped him.

“Why?!” I screamed at him a cried. I was so angry. He still didn’t look at me. I repeated the word louder. He looked down still.

“I can’t be with you.”

“I know that! You made it pretty fucking clear, but just tell me why! I can’t move on from you unless you do, and I want to move on! Just fucking tell me!” his head snapped back to me and he got right in my face.

“I saw the photos of your dad on the wall…”

“So what? I told you he died,” I replied defensively.

“You said he died! Not murdered!” he shouted at me.

“I didn’t want to bring that up.” He looked down and away.

“I wish I knew so I never met you. I should have just left,” he whispered, more to himself than me I could tell.

“What? You don’t mean that, right?”

“Now I will feel terrible every time I think of you or everything we ever did together.”

“WHY!”

“BECAUSE I'M THE ONE THAT MURDERED YOUR DAD!” he screamed in my face. I felt my face go slack and bent over my knees. I started to hyperventilate. Then he left and ran from his house. And from me.

He never came back.

By- Khylie